I wouldn't want to be a volleyball,
forever hot-potatoed over nets
by handsome people grunting as they fall
whose only fluid I would feel is sweat. 
No cost too high to swat me up away,
rejected back and forth between the teams.
The blistering sun of salty summer days. 
Abused until I'm busting at the seams.
Every time I'm spiked into the sand,
I'd cry out with a desperate, hollow ring
before I'm served again and struck by hands 
in rhythms that would tempt the sea to sing. 
I thank the thing I am so very much
that I'm more likely to be gently touched. 

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“AHAH” I'll cry the moment that I see
the scuttling friend who wanders past my feet. 
He is no insect, ant, or fly, or Bee.
Lift up a rock and watch his swift retreat. 
No vertebrate can match my buddy's age,
whose family photos, recessed in the stone, 
hold wisdom wiser than the wisest sage 
in stories that the fossil records shown.
No predator has anything to gain
antagonizing sow bugs passing by. 
These cute crustaceans living in their lane,
contented in the niche they occupy.
I wish to learn the rolly-polly way
to never burn out, never fade away. 

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The smashing of the atoms in the sky,
the pushing and the pulling of the air
o'er endless blue that's yawning deep and wide 
determines our how and when and where.
These domino-ing gusts have claimed the lives 
of countless sailors since the dawn of time.
The waiting parents, husband's, kids, and wives 
have lost their loves, most taken in their prime.
Despite the dangers of brine-y drink,
the bravest of us still see the appeal
in endless blue, the space to breathe and think,
a place so vast, you question if it's real.
Hold fast against the windy, weeping wail
so it may serve to only fill your sail. 

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A herd of deer have made it to my lawn.
they’re thugs and robbers, each and every one,
the bucks, the does, especially the fawns,
from which I cower indoors ‘till they’re gone. 
Well, no. They’ve never hurt me or my friends,
but all our flowers didn’t stand a chance.
It was impossible to mount a good defence 
with fence or first or gun or bomb or lance. 
“Cant beat ‘em? Join ‘em”, TV shows would say.
I guess, perhaps I’ll maybe step outside 
into the harsh exposure of the day 
and put a smile on that’s deep and wide
to ask the deer-y deers to come and play,
allowing me to go and live their way.  

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I want to be an apple pretty bad 
if just to bud from knotty, twiggy trees 
in time for summer to have had
its final scorchings just before the freeze.
If I could be an apple I would know 
the sound of whispered nothings on the wind,
by colonies of leaves when breezes blow
the shining polish of my ripened skin. 
If bird or human may pluck me away,
I hope I’d know that, surely, I must be 
so appetizing to become their prey,
that they would want to have their way with me. 
I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh…
perhaps, I want you ripping me in half. 

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It prob’ly feels like something to be you, 
the scar from where you might have bit your lip, 
the automatic things you’ve learned to do,
the callouses where spoons sit in your grip.
I know it feels like something to be me,
to go to sleep, the slowing of my breath,
or know my cat’s full seventeen routines,
the feeling of the fearing for my death.
I wonder if we’re made of the same stuff, 
the bubbling of the lifeblood of the earth,
that lives just to observe and be enough
and starts to tell its story at its birth.
How lucky and absurd it is to be
some spirits who are literate as we. 

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From where we stand, the roots seem to exceed
the line of the horizon overhead,
and though I’d want to follow where you’d lead,
I think I’d be afraid of being read
for all I am and all I’ve yet to be. 
Perhaps you’d be a lit’rate set of eyes
that – maybe – comprehend the things they see, 
but I can’t shake that I would be unwise
to offer up the codex of my mind,
as I have yet to fully understand 
the blessing of the many things I find
that have been placed, by (loving) others, in my hand. 
Could we, perhaps, just kick a single stone
through parking lots while talking on the phone?

To some, a void in cloth is not enough
to speak to how they want the earth to feel,
to be consistent with their exhaled luft,
to show off what they want to be revealed. 
To some, a texture simply wouldn’t do, 
to draw the hands behind the boundary
to where most contact must remain a view,
to pious body’s tended monastery. 
To some, some hardware is an obstacle 
to fasten, zip, unzip, and pull away, 
to give a jolt of cold, to unbuckle, 
to tarnish out of silver, into gray. 
To me, the blackness makes me want to find
the end of hunger buried ‘neath the rind. 

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I’ve seen chrysanthemums that touch the sky,
sprays of roses in bunches not to be
believed, despite digesting in my eye,
so lush and full, fractaled infinity.
I’ve smelled perfume from stock buds pink and white,
whose sweetness still does linger in my mind,
so fresh and subtle, clean and made of light,
so earthy, yes, but elegant – refined. 
I’ve touched a poppy’s paper thin petals, 
and the red carnation’s grandma-knuckle nodes, 
and star-gazer’s dusty pollen freckles, 
and a hydrangea’s underwatered woes. 
But still, my senses won’t be satisfied, 
until I witness what’s behind your eyes. 

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The permanent remarks of persons’ past
leave marks upon those sensitive as we,
calligraphy by many hands scratch fast
the hatchings of our personality.
They're vertical and and broken, never long
save for the ones we draw upon ourselves.
Those ones will curve and and lilt as to a song,
with needlepoint impressions deepest delved. 
These grooves will stay long after ink will fade,
so evidence of any love and lives 
relieves onto the page from charcoal's shade, 
in grave rubbing's, an effort to derive 
the rhythm of our time that's given out,
without the promise of what it’s about. 

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There’s something hiding barely out of sight
that's printed, woven, stitched, and tucked away.
It could be smooth or rough or black or red or white, 
or a lie that you could softly say. 
Repeated frames in frames will bounce and roll 
in style through what I once called “a town”
with sandy soil in a rocky shoal 
until they bounce and dribble out of bounds. 
There’s piqued a wanting in me to be taught 
the depth of royal color in your art,
a kind of knowledge could not be bought, 
but given freely after we impart
to one another things we’d never dream 
of parting with without a wretched scream. 

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In finding information in the space
between the lines stacked neatly to the sky
these lines will taper outward off your face
outside the outer limit of your eye,
dripping over pillowed cheeks with flecks 
of freckles that will summit at the ridge
upon the place where you might rest your specs
colloquially called your nose’s bridge. 
Now up to bat, the wings can take their place
in fives by twos that pinch potential tears 
to draw me in so studying your face 
could spin from moments into many years, 
so by the time I've written all I see,
we'll both be off with other wheres to be. 

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Upon the final day that I'm alive,
I hope it's raining as it is today,
just as is known to all the lucky wives, 
a soft and warm and saturating spray. 
When ever I may spill into the dark,
I hope it's like storm water down a drain,
a rushing flow that carves into its mark,
with gravity to be its only chain. 
When dissipating back into the source, 
I hope to be precipitation then,
to change my Matter forward into Force, 
in memories entrusted to my friends,
so when they die and meet their final day, 
they go where one who loved them paved the way. 

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It's after midnight in the salty mist,
air cracking skin on knuckles, knees, and lips.
I'm crossing fleeting feelings off my list,
and tasting tea in fifty thousand sips. 
The radiator’s bubbling to a beat
still often hiding in the pantheon
of quiet home noise dripping warm and sweet,
the last I’ll hear ‘till consciousness is gone.
It's slow - the time it takes to fall asleep,
as if the moments hang from gallows high.
Which memories expire? Which ones will keep? 
Which ones will flatten high up in the sky? 
I’ll overdraw my mind, it’s highest bid, 
while drifting off to where the truth is hid.

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Stacked on one another, pigments fan
into a line that tints a shade of blue, 
that only could be got through chemists hands,
depicting a magnetic shot of you. 
A window traces circles in my eyes,
a blackness that will dare imagined names
imagining my very Name's disguise
among the swiping sea of tragic sames. 
A bite, just one subtracted from the whole
of tender fruit that's borne of pixels too,
can strike away the blue-ness, making full,
but only framing him and you-know-who. 
Now roll into my mind and off my tongue.
I hope you like the sound that leaves my lungs. 

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I hope you use the greatest of your fuel 
to open windowed borders of your soul,
expand the territory Senses rule,
absorb the violently beautiful. 
I hope you can adopt the stuff of dreams,
acceptance without ever giving up, 
Is or’s not the many ways it seems,
pouring out what fills an empty cup. 
I hope you keep your two feet on the ground, 
so rucking out your curses can be done, 
to follow every interesting sound, 
authority diminishes to One. 
I hope you can forgive your innocence,
and feel the deepest hum of resonance.

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Beams perpendicular to gooey domes
reveal the valleys hungering for light 
inlaid inside my Selfhood's homophone 
contracting in the underprivileged night. 
The colors fold inside more colors still
within the finger-print-ly freckled rings,
by saturating human chlorophyll
contrasted by the red and watering. 
Concentric circles still perpetuate 
long after cloudy films may overtake  
the blackness of the world's shadow's weight 
so oft compared to seas and stormy lakes.
We’ll see the world, never letting dull
our gift of marbled marbles in our skull.

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The ceiling cracks will lead a sight line down 
to windows flaunting nature's mighty hand 
where outside's sky is seamless with the ground
that's covered with a snow, the weight of sand. 
Now fall back into icy pillows down
while training eyes up to the mystic gray.
No shadows, taste, or sight, or touch, or sound
can differentiate the falling flakes. 
That is, until the night may fin'lly fall,
and street lamps starkly beam against the black.
Just then might contrast deign to show it all,
all of The Sky’s precipitous attack. 
Don balaclava now and settle in, 
and listen as the veil is wearing thin. 

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Another mile by the river grabs the wind
and kisses us goodbye
too soon, replaced by another to sweep us 
and our two tired vehicles 
ever forward through fields of 
swaying rye.
I always forget to smell each breath 
of air, and reproach myself for it later,
wishing for a fresher memory 
of the atmosphere that I covet so 
jealously
all the rest of the time. 

I don't bother to count the cows. 
There might as well be a million. 
Or the horses, or the deer. 
Forget about the birds and bugs. 
These hills roll beyond known limits.
As soon as we crest one, the next leaps
with delight to receive us
with all its trappings and characters
who are eager to share the gossip 
of the summits yet to come.

There's one clearing we always pass,
but never stop at. 
A sloping, verdant acclivity,
clear cut for hundreds of yards,
terminating at a treeline 
halfway to the crest. 
I'm always taken with the way 
the gusts reveal themselves to my eyes
by way of oscillating over innumerable
shoots of pliant grass,
swelling in waves,
best witnessed from 
                                                   far away. 

Every time we pass it, 
I have to ask myself 
why we never stop to look
and lay down on that soft bed 
benignly to stare up into the 
big, baby blue void to 
answer rorschach prompts to the 
passing clouds.
Passing clouds who might show us 
our forgetfulness and disquietude, 
or the things we love the most.
Perhaps I will feel that expansion 
in my gut 
make its way toward my throat and beyond
when my youngest and oldest parts 
start to wrestle in the space 
offered by the chasm of the clearing 
and the stillness of the earth underback,
forcing to memory their own foiled designs
for exactly how they know we should stomp
from start to finish. 
Or maybe I just don't want to get ticks. 

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If ever saw I something worth its sight, 
I'd seen it here with all except my eyes, 
with hunger hinting at the astral night 
and tender shining flesh that's galvanized. 
If ever laws might overlap with truth,
I'd follow them wherever they would bind, 
for sure, they’d lead me freely up to you, 
where nothing worth rememb’ring is behind. 
It’s not yet known to me, the truth I’d see 
within the looming form I guess you’d cast,
what parts of mine would simply cease to be, 
or whether time would stop or go too fast, 
but, nonetheless I know I must submit 
my guts, my life, my love. Yes - all of it. 

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